


B U F Ó N

by AkireMG



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Gun Violence, I mean, Ian is like the Joker... well they call him Joker hahahahaha, Its a hot mess that what it is, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Linear Narrative, guess who's harley quinn then, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-01-15 01:58:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18488950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkireMG/pseuds/AkireMG
Summary: Mickey is a pawn.Ian doesn't like anyone getting too close to any of his pieces.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I mean, Cameron plays the Joker, it was a matter of time I wrote this.  
> Also, of fucking course Mickey speaks Spanish, that's my headcanon and I will go down with it.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“He doesn’t love you,” the cop says, mocking and mean, but Mickey does nothing but smile widely at him, his body leaning forward until the muzzle of the man’s gun is pressed against his bare chest.

He won’t shot.

He doesn’t have the balls nor the authorization.

“Oh, yeah?” he says with a laugh. “Then why there’s a pretty little red dot on your forehead, darling?”

The cop’s body hits the ground a second later. He didn’t even have the time to comprehend what was about to happen to him. That’s good. It’s fucking annoying when they try to run even when they know there’s no way to escape. Fucking idiots.

Still, Mickey’s smile dies as soon as a pool of blood starts to form under the cop’s head. It almost looks black under the shitty white light of the building. Mickey feels bad for whoever is going to clean the mess. Blood stains are a bitch to clean off. And, not that someone’s asking, but the blood is getting into his cell, and that just won’t do, because yeah, _gross, no thanks._

This man was not a threat. Not even in the slightest. He was just a fool that thought ‘the Joker’s bitch’ wasn’t important enough to be looked after, to have people infiltrated in this fucking prison. Also, he talked too much, and Ian isn’t very fond of that. Really, Devan made him a huge favor putting a bullet on his brain before Ian had the chance to punish him himself for talking shit.

“You have no fucking impulse control, do you, Devan?” Mickey smiles at the man, who’s distractedly picking at his nails, nonchalant and relaxed like he didn’t just fucking killed someone. Mickey likes him a lot. He’s one of the few that didn’t fucking lost his mind when Mickey responded to Ian’s violence in kind.

“Orders are orders, sir,” he says simply.

“Not sure I believe he told you to kill every single motherfucker that said stupid shit like he did.” It would be exhausting and pointless to do so. A ton people thought Mickey was the epitome of stupidity, getting rid of them would look like genocide. Not that Ian is entirely opposed to it. He really is crazy, after all. “You just like to cause trouble, don’t ya, Devan?”

Devan doesn’t smile. He’s smart that way. He only looks at Mickey, at the fucking _cage_ they keep him in, and holds his stare. They have known each other for years now. If Devan wasn’t as good as he is at doing his job Mickey would’ve slept with him when Ian pissed him off, which happened on a regular basis when he was a free man. Prison, sadly enough, has been like a vacation. Here he doesn’t have to dispose of Ian’s whores every other day, something that’s honestly exhausting considering how much of a whore Ian is himself.

Devan was unimpressed when Mickey told him that when he was so high off his mind he couldn’t even stand.

“But he doesn’t take it, y’know, so _I’m_ the whore, the dumb slut that keeps coming back just to get used and eventually tossed to the side… I mean, they’re not _wrong_ , but still”, and he laughed, truly amused with the entire situation and too gone on whatever drug he got his hands on from one of Ian’s drawers.

Devan kept silent, just watching him make a fool of himself with no judgement in his — _oh so pretty_ — eyes, and then helped him to his bed when he fell unconscious. Mickey decided to keep him since.

“I like the new army boy”, he told Ian a few days later. They were on arguably good terms then, so Ian smiled at him, teeth exposed, and told him to fuck him, then. Mickey, comfortably seated on his lover’s desk, moved to straddle him. He took Ian’s hair in his hands and pulled to tip his head backwards. “No, no, no, tough guy. You don’t need a reason to kill him, why would I give you one?”

“Nothing you haven’t done before, Mick,” he shrugged, hands going to Mickey’s waist, squeezing and scratching his way down to Mickey’s ass, his erection pressing clearly against the fabric of his pants. The sick fuck got off on this kind of things. Mickey had the bruises and bite marks to prove it.

“Mm“, Mickey nodded, his lips just above Ian’s, “but what about you use that energy on me instead?”

Ian didn’t need more than that to throw Mickey on the desk and fuck him until his bitch of a secretary opened the door to remind him of his afternoon meeting. Not that the stupid little girl had any words to say when she saw them going at it like animals, but Ian had an excellent memory and just said ‘yes, Bianca, I’ll be there’ before taking Mickey by the nape and continue pounding into him at an unmerciful, toe-curling pace. Afterwards, Mickey was too fucked out to say anything to a big-eyed with a too-low neckline Bianca, so he settled with making a show of kissing Ian goodbye and making promises for later.

Of course, Bianca was, just like Mickey thought, a fucking stupid little girl that wanted more than she could handle, and ended up trying to seduce Ian, who just stared at her naked form for very long seconds and then asked her to bring him coffee. The girl was mortified and quit soon after.

But the next secretary was a man, and that was it for their arguably good terms.

Mickey found them fucking on the same desk Bianca found him and Ian fucking.

Someone got shot that day. Also, Mickey propositioned Devan as soon as he was able to see through his rage.

“Sounds tempting, sir, but I’m sure you’ll just smack me around a little and then the boss will end the job, so I’ll pass.”

“Shame you’re smart. I bet you have a big dick.”

That, Devan didn’t deny, so Mickey knew he was right. Good to know.

“It seems to me you’re going stir-crazy, Devan”, Mickey tells him after some unlucky bastard has cleaned up the mess of blood and brains Devan caused. “How long has it been?”

“Three months, sir.”

“Ah, yes. Three months down, the rest of my life to go. They better let you go on vacation soon. You already killed… how many?”

Devan doesn’t say anything. Mickey likes him a little bit more. Not that he can do anything about it in this situation. It’s a miracle they let him work out. Maybe he shouldn’t have stabbed the pig that groped him when he was being transferred to this prison, but Mickey had fucking standards, and it’s not like the old queen needed both his eyes, so all the fuss just annoyed Mickey, because had Ian been there, an eye less would have been magnanimous, not a ‘serious, long-affecting injury'.

Fuckers. All of them.

“We should go out, Devan. Both our complexions don’t do very well without the sun.”

“They won’t let you out anytime soon, sir.”

“When did I ever say anything about _them_ , honey?”

Devan is smart and skilled, one of the best Ian or Mickey have ever had, but even men like him have weaknesses. Devan’s is softness, innocence, sweetness; all the things he unexpectedly lost.

He was an orphan with enough luck to be adopted for a good family before the system kicked him out. He was fourteen and the family that took him in had two other children already. Devan became an older brother out of the blue, but he did a good job thanks to his adopted parents. For six years he lived being loved and admired by his siblings, loved and looked after by his parents. He was happy and grateful, and if there weren’t sick bastards living among good people, Devan would have grown up to live a normal life worrying about his younger brother and sister and giving back to his parents everything they gave him without being asked to.

That’s how life works.

Mickey didn’t think this would be his life, either.

Devan gives in a few weeks later. He makes calls and says names and gets what Mickey requested.

Mickey can leave the building for a day.

He enjoys the sun and the fresh air, takes his time to drink in everything that he’s missing out just because it’s necessary to obtain what he wants the most. A few months on this boring place is worth years with Ian. Being willing to be locked up, beaten, cut, burnt and shot for (one or two times _by_ ) Ian is what people don’t get. Mickey doesn’t give a shit about what they say anymore, but he understands why it’s so incredible to think he does all this just for some dick attached to a pretty face.

“He’s under my skin,” he told Mandy the last time they saw each other, just before Mickey made the decision of giving everything else up for Ian, “what the fuck can I do?”

“Dig him out,” Mandy said, arms crossed, right cheek purple and yellow, nose bleeding, lips cut open, hands soaked in Kenyatta’s blood. “Dig him out, slit his throat and move on.”

It was good advice.

Mickey didn’t have what was needed to follow it.

“Time’s up, sir.”

Mickey didn’t look at Devan. He wanted to see the starts for a little longer. Remember simpler times when the sky, blankets and cheap beer… Well. Simpler times.

“Remind me to never let myself be brought back here, could you, Devan?”

There was silence.

It’s been such a long time since they were outside together, just the two of them alone, without other guards or pawns walking around. Devan had missed it, even if it was a stupid thing to feel on these circumstances. Mickey Milkovich is a devoted man and Devan came too late into his life to be considered more than a quick fuck to get back at Ian for the man's inability to be loyal. Promises and feelings don't have any value for someone that gave everything up for the promises and feelings of a man that died many years ago.

“I’ll make sure of it, sir, but let's hope you listen to me.”

**.**

Years before Ian plans need for Mickey to be arrested, some idiot wants to make deals with Ian, mockingly called ‘the Joker' by other idiots that disliked realizing there was more to him than a unbalanced brain chemistry and an unorthodox, uncaring, brutal way of getting exactly what he wanted.

Devan, as always, oversees security. He's had this job for only a few months, but he's proven himself enough times to be given some low-medium tasks.

The club they're in is an exclusive place that Ian bought because he didn't like the previous owner and taking all his possessions would make easier getting into his head, strip him of his entitlement, and open him to the reality of his painful, pathetic irrelevancy.

Ian loves to play those games, and, to be honest, Devan wouldn't care about it if Mickey wasn't part of the whole game, used and dismissed as nothing but a distraction.

Near-naked, moving his body to the rhythm of a song in Spanish full of shameless propositions that Devan kind of understands thanks to his high-school Spanish classes. Mickey has assigned the ‘easy, easy, easy job, you've done it for me so many times before, Mick' of attracting attention and getting names. He isn't known in this part of England, his face passing as a new, pretty, little thing that was recently hired as a low-life whore for the growing prostitution side-business Ian decided to create on a good, sunny morning when human trafficking stopped being an unbreakable limit for him.

There were less and less limits since then.

Not that Devan has enough of a death wish to point that out.

But the important thing right now is the stupid fuck whose grey-matter seems to have gone out his head while making deals with Ian. Of all the possible situations the fucking bastard chose this one to tease death.

God, it's hard to feel sorry for him.

“You like him?”, Ian asks, face serious for a second before brightening up with a broad smile and creases around the eyes. It doesn't fool anyone. Or at least not anyone that knows him. The stupid fuck doesn't see past the apparent offer Ian is making him.

Devan sighs silently. Cleaning up is always tedious.

“Who wouldn't? I hadn't seen an ass like that in ages, but I bet it's already loose and sloppy by now. Wouldn't take much to get him used to my cock,” he almost cackles, his miniscule brain not picking up on how Ian is holding himself back, the way he's ready to get his gun out and point it at places were wounds would be fatal and very, very painful.

Fuck.

He's a dead man walking.

Maybe Ian is holding himself back because he's considering the pros and cons of torture.

“He's not as cheap as he seems,” Ian says glancing at Mickey for a moment. Devan looks, too, taking advantage of Ian being focused on… what is idiot-number-three-of-the-day's name? Something with C. Calvin, perhaps. Whatever. The fucker is leering at Mickey with no reserves. Ian’s hand is getting progressively closer to his gun. The fool has no survival skills, Devan doubts he would last long even if Ian lets him go with just some broken bone or lacerated limb. “Would you like me to call him? He won't say no if I tell him to do something. I'm his boss.”

Last chance.

 Devan has no hope, but-

“Oh, yes. I'm gonna enjoy him thoroughly, thank you.”

 Well, maybe C-something has had a good life.

Ian is smiling again, jaw tense, eyes burning. He makes a gesture to Matt, the guard closest to Mickey, and Devan suppresses any reaction because Matt is a clever, sadistic fuck that will likely tell Mickey to make it worse just to get a laugh off it. Mickey listens to Matt with an expression range that's the perfect balance between unsuspecting and servile. He's a great actor -or he is so damn empty it's not hard for him to fit any personality into himself in such a deep level no one would suspect it wasn't natural. Whatever the case, Mickey's as good at it as he is at… well, anything he sets his mind into, for what Devan's seen.

Mickey nods, a sly smile playing on his lips, and then gets off the stage to walk trough the crowd. Many men try to stop him, but Matt is close behind and stops them before they also make the stupid move of touching what's not theirs. Some other men only offer money, thinking a whore in need wouldn't dare to say no to triple zeros. Mickey winks at one or two, but not even one is given more than a fleeting, distracted look. Not that it is insignificant. Mickey's eyes are a sight to behold. Devan is not strange to the feeling of being observed by them.

“Hey, boss, what can I do for you?”, Mickey asks sliding into de boot to sit next to Ian, one of his hands going immediately to Ian’s crotch and the other to his chest, his plump lips seeking a taste of Ian's skin with movements that make it seem like he's never taste it before. “Gonna give me that time alone I've been asking you for?”

One thing Devan gives Ian credit for is how very easily he makes his lover go after others, just as if he met Mickey being the latest, indeed, a whore. He's heard them having sex. Ian is a possessive man with control issues and the tendency to mark Mickey up for everyone to know who he belongs to. It can't be easy to let that go to get business done.

Killing is business, of course.

“I called for my friend here, actually,” he waves a hand in C-whatever's direction. Mickey appears annoyed for an instant before composing himself and giving ‘Ian's friend' his most alluring expression, body language slowly changing to look smaller, more vulnerable with his naked chest completely exposed. It's not intentional, but his nipples -pink, how can they be that shade of pink?- are soft and his skin is covered in a thin layer of sweat, two things which, sincerely, are a thousand times more attractive that any amount of -admittedly good- whore-impersonation.

“Oh,” Devan can sense the 'I would rather not' in his tone. Ian can, too, if the pull on his lip's corner is anything to go by. “Is that right?”, he starts to lean over the table, shoulders lower enough to pass as a submissive stance, but also tense, ready to pounce while making a show of flexing his well-defined arms. C-something has no chance against that. He's too air-headed to realize. His bodyguards, on the other hand, are not as eased by Ian's attitude or Mickey's display. “And how this friend of yours wants me?”

“Is that same position maybe right where you are,” the man is quick to answer, eager and about ready to burst judging by the way he's squirming in his seat. Devan would be disgusted by the thought of being touched by him; can't imagine touching him willingly like Mickey’s about to.

“Ah. Kinky, aren’t you?”, Mickey takes the man's jaw in his hand, caressing with a feather-like touch that may be interpreted as seduction but is only reticence. The less he touches the man, the better for him. “You have a thing for exhibitionism? If you're good, the boss will let us do it on stage. This place needs a new act, don't you think?”

 C-something is almost buzzing out of his skin. He thinks he's good. Mickey is pushing him to make the bad decisions, like one would do with a hormonal teenager. It's surprising the amount of men that don't grow out of that malleability. Devan is one of the few that never developed it. What a blessing. He wouldn't like to be in the opposite seat to Ian's.”

“Hope you have it in you to give it to me good and hard. Love getting pounded; could go on for hours,” he purrs.

It’s so soft and gentle and fucking dirty Devan feels his heart speeding up and his muscles tightening. He wants. He knew he wanted since the first time he saw Mickey holding the boss close to him, kissing his jaw and petting his hair like The Joker wasn’t the dangerous, crazy son of a bitch he was.

Devan wasn’t used to lust after someone else’s lover; why lose time wanting what wasn’t his when he could have someone devoted entirely to himself? Also, why tease death like that? Devan wasn’t an idiot and didn’t have a death wish, not that the King needed any reasons to kill someone; the most intelligent thing you could do being this close to him was not giving him one.

C-something knows none of that, though, so it only surprises the slowest of Ian’s men when he takes Mickey by the nape and pushes him down on the table. The angle Mickey ends up in is awkward and surely makes something ache, if the grunt he lets out is any clue.

“Some whores don’t know when to keep their mouth shut, but don’t worry, I’ll teach you well.”

Devan is more shocked by Ian’s reaction than C-something’s lack of foresight. Honestly, he is kind of looking forward to the punishment. Men should have some fucking manners, and if Ian’s raised eyebrow and low laugh means what Dean thinks it does, C-something is going to have them beaten in by the end of the night.

“Seize him.”

Matt has the man on the ground in a second. He’s younger than Devan, not military, but vicious as a beast. He’s grinning and his face is flushed with excitement. Matt has Ian in an altar and could kiss the ground he walks in if he was told to. Devan is in no position to judge him with the way he looks at Mickey, how readily he complies to his requests and falls victim to his expert acts of innocence.

C-something’s bodyguards are too smart to give a shit for their boss. If they keep showing brains maybe Ian will consider hiring them.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”, C-something shouts, indignant, eyes open-wide and mouth curl-up in revulsion at being touched by one of Ian’s men, a _filthy, disposable, low-rank rat_. Matt shuts him up with a punch straight to the jaw.

“Fucking finally,” Mickey says getting up and taking a seat on Ian’s lap, “why the hell did you let him go on for so long? Bastard’s breath fucking smells like shit, it was disgusting.”

Ian holds his neck and pulls him down for a kiss Mickey melts into instantly.  His pale, clear skin is glistening under the club’s ligth, pink cheeks, lips and nipples standing out among all the milky-white he’s made of. Ian fondles him everywhere, big hands and blunt nails leaving a mark in every centimeter they touch. He bruises so effortlessly.

Devan wonders if Ian ever thinks about not leaving any mark.

“You know I wouldn’t let him have you, Mick,” Ian gives Mickey another, closed-mouthed kiss that does wonders in pacifying his disgruntled lover. “It was just a little playing around. No one gets to be that damn disrespectful to you without being scolded.”

Scolded.

God.

That makes what’s about to happen ten times worse.

Suddenly, Ian stands up with Mickey in his arms, puts him down on the table and kisses him long and hard for seconds that feel like an eternity to those waiting. Matt gets bored when Ian’s not being violent. Devan prefers it. Not that it matters to any of their bosses.

“What do you want me to do to him, Mick?”

Ian presses down on Mickey, his arm between their bodies, undoubtedly stroking Mickey’s dick with discreet movements. Devan doesn’t like when Ian tries to manipulate Mickey into telling him how to hurt someone. Again, not that that matters at all.

Mickey kisses him one more time and then pushes him to stand up. Ian tries to reach his face, his _neck_ , but Mickey puts a foot on his stomach and grins widely, tongue between his lips, his erection as clear as Ian's marks on his skin.

“Entertain me, tough guy.”

Ian makes sure he’s very entertained.

Matt is cheerful the rest of the week.

**.**

One month later, Devan wakes up to a headache so bad even his neck throbs. He’s never felt something like it before. It doesn’t seem natural to be in such an amount of pain without having an open wound; he’s not bleeding, he has no bloodstain anywhere. But… the light that enters through the small window says it’s about noon, he’s still in his uniform and he’s not in his department.

He’s on the floor of one of the storage rooms in Ian’s house.

Hours after this he’ll realize how pathetic his reaction was, but right now his only thought is Mickey. No Ian, not Matt or any of the many innocent people that work for his boss, but Mickey, someone else’s lover, a man that will never look at him like he looks at Ian, that would kill him in a blink of an eye if Ian really wanted him to-

He sprints out of the room and starts to look for him.

There’s no one on the house. The kitchen, the laundry room, the many living and spare rooms, all empty. Where the fuck are all the maids and other servants? The rest of the guards? Where did they go or were taken to? What day is it?

Ian and Mickey’s room in on the fourth floor and it’s massive, way bigger than Devan’s apartment. It’s ridiculous, wasteful and full of crazy things Devan doesn’t want to think about what they’re used for.

He wasn’t expecting to find anyone, but as soon as he opens the door, he can make out Mickey’s form in the bed. He’s lying on his side, back facing the door, a black sheet carelessly draped over him. The huge window next to the bed is closed, but it’s a cold day. He must be freezing.

If he isn’t dead.

“Sir…,” Devan is out of breath, and things are strangely dark, somber, like his eyes can’t focus, as if the air is denser. He can’t move. He’s lucky he can speak. “Sir!”

“-fuck’s sake, Devan, what the fuck do you want? Head’s killing me. Leave me the fuck alone.”

God.

Oh _God_.

He’s fine.

In pain, but alive and _here_.

Fucking hells, he _is_ pathetic.

“House’s empty, sir.”

Mickey goes still for a moment. Then, his shoulders fall, and he rolls onto his back, an arm covering his eyes and the other cuffed to the bed-post. There are bruises and hickeys all over his body, and his wrist was rubbed raw by the cuffs. The sheet doesn’t let Devan see Mickey’s body from the waist down, but he can imagine it. He’s learnt to expect the worst from Ian.

“Can you check the bathroom for a black backpack with white zippers? It should be in the drawers under the sink.”

Devan doesn’t understand why Mickey is asking him to do that, but he obeys and goes to the bathroom. He looks for the item, but there’s nothing. Not in the drawers under the sink, not in the ones next to the tub or the others on top of the wardrobe.

“It’s not here, sir.”

Mickey is reclined on the headboard, the sheet lower than before, his hips and pelvis showing all their bitten and scratched glory. He doesn’t seem to care about all the bloody marks on his body. Hearing Devan say the backpack isn’t here, on the other hand, makes him look so relieved it’s nearly moving. Or it would if Devan wasn’t so centered on the pale, lightly-freckled skin that has purple and blue spots anywhere possible. There’s even a bite mark on the side of his neck that was deep enough to let a few drops of blood slide down to his chest.

“It’s alright, then, Ian just relocated.”

“That means I’m fired or something?”, Devan’s headache is coming back now that the adrenaline is wearing off his veins. He leans on the doorframe and breathes deeply.

“Oh, no, not at all. You’re here just because Ian is petty and reckless about some decision making… Fucking dick drugged us both and made it _hurt_ like it was necessary.” He chuckles, but ends up grimacing, and then tugs at his cuffed wrist tentatively. “Help a guy out, could you, sweetheart? I need water, painkillers and a long, long bath.”

After he’s gotten and done all that (and making sure Devan is well, too), he makes breakfast at five o’clock and eats slowly, enjoying the flavors and laughing at Devan for his sudden clumsiness.

“You can shoot a man that’s a kilometer away but can’t eat without letting your scrambled eggs falling from your fork? That’s adorable.” He smiles chewing on one of his thick slices of bacon.

“I was hit in the head, sir.”

“Were you?”

“Yes. Maybe I have a mild concussion.”

Mickey stares at him. His blue eyes shine brighter than before even though there is no way he’s fine. Devan has the urgency to reach out, offer his hand and wait for it not to be refused. His little brother and sister, his father and mother, taught him about that, being careful and slow and understanding, prepare for the worse and expect the best, be grateful for what’s given and never push for things that aren’t for him.

It’s good advice. Devan hopes to live up to it.

After another moment of silence, Mickey resumes his eating.

“What do you think about a little vacation, Devan?”

In his defense, Devan never thought he would hear Mickey say that, so almost choking on his bite of food is hardly his fault. Mickey laughs, but doesn’t comment on it, so Devan can let go of a bit of the embarrassment.

“Shouldn’t we contact the boss?”

“He left for a reason,” Mickey shrugs. “Whatever it is, he doesn’t need us to do it, so why not enjoy a little time off all his crazy business?”

“Where do you want to go, sir?”

Mickey finishes his food before answering.

“It’s been a while since I was in Mexico.”

**.**

Mickey doesn’t take him to Cancún or Acapulco or any of those beaches Devan has heard about being in Mexico. He said he dislikes places that are packed with people, young tourists are too annoying and that those beaches, though beautiful, are not worth it.

They go to a little town called Costa Esmeralda in Veracruz that is mostly quiet, not warm enough to feel suffocating, and where you can rent a little boat to go fishing for less that a hundred bucks for the whole day. They don’t do the latter, nor they stay for more than a few hours, but Devan feels good, better than he has in months, when Mickey turns off his beeping cellphone while they’re enjoying the sun and the breeze and the sense of not owing anything to anyone.

It’s a fantasy, and that’s what makes the idea of staying so tempting.

They both are in debt and what they own can only be pay off with decades of loyalty. Devan could try and leave, turn himself to the police and pray for a new identity in exchange of all the things he’s learned after months working for Ian. But he won’t do that. He can’t. He doesn’t _want_ to, not when Mickey is going to stay until he dies. Devan can’t make him change his mind, consider the pros of living as a civilian under witness protection, or point out something about Ian he doesn’t already know.

“Where are we going next, sir?”

Mickey is watching the ocean, the waves, knees against his chest and a distant look on his eyes. That’s been his usual mood since they left the United States. Devan whishes he didn’t know why.

“The capital,” he says. “I’m catching up with a friend that’s going to be there for a few weeks.”

“You have a friend here?”

Mickey laughs.

“He’s one of our many contacts in Mexico, but yeah, he’s the only one I would call a friend. He even forgave for leaving him in the middle of nowhere when we escaped from prison.”

Fuck. Right. Mickey is, among other things, a fugitive.

Devan tends to ignore and even _forget_ those details.

“I think you’re gonna like him. His real name is Francisco, but he goes by Damon. Don’t call him that, though, he doesn’t like it, and I want him to cook for me, so we better stay on his good side.”

Devan drives them to the capital. It takes them less than six hours with one stop to eat and buy cold beer. Mickey lays comfortably on his reclined seat, beer on one hand, feet up on the dashboard, the radio in some station that plays the same type of music Devan heard that day in the England club, but with less shameless propositions and more of a heartbroken lover telling his ex how they’ve known for a while about the ex’s infidelity. Judging by the enthusiasms Mickey is singing with, he loves that music, or feels the message deeply. Whatever it is, is better than watch him kicking the hell out of one of Ian’s whores to calm himself down.

“ _¿Por qué siempre andas con el mismo cuento?..._ _Hablas de eso en el peor mo-men-to, y te la pasas todo el día, jodiéndome la vida_ ”, his accent is very noticeable, but his Spanish is not half bad, the consonant sounds clearly practiced and distinctive from the English ones.

“ _Tal vez esto no va gustarte, pero ya lo tienes que oír…_ ”, the rhythm changes, Mickey snaps his fingers to the beat. “ _La noche que tú me llamaste, la vez que no pude llegar, pasó algo que no te enteraste; tú no colgaste el celular_ ,” his voice gets deeper, rougher. “ _Es una cuenta a saldo, pero, entonces, mami, ¿qué vamos a hacer cuando ya pase el drama? ¿Cuando estás con él también le dices papi? Veamos quién te trata mejor en la cama._ That son of a bitch!”, the rest of the song passes with Mickey still signing along, but quieter, the singer’s voice silencing his, wide smile and half-closed eyes.

The song that follows is from the same singer, and Mickey turns up the volume, straightens up and starts trying to make Devan sing with him. Devan just catches a few phrases, but no matter how much passion Mickey pours in his signing, Devan keeps looking ahead, mouth closed, face carefully unreadable. Fuck his life if all those years of training will go to shit just because Mickey is _singing_.

“Devan! I gotta take you to a club here so you can loosen up a bit! Fuck, what happened to the cute little thing that couldn’t fucking eat right? When was the last time you got laid?”, he throws his empty beer can to the backseat and opens another one in less than five seconds. He’s hardly drunk, but the alcohol and the hot weather do things to men, specially those in such need of just letting go.

“That’s a personal question, sir,” he tries being annoying to avoid the answer.

“Fuck off! You’ve seen me deepthroating Ian more than once,” he laughs, cheeks pink, lips wet from the beer he’s drinking like he won’t have any other chance to, “and I’m fucking sure you’ve been one of the poor bastards that have heard him ramming me so hard I fucking _cry_ -“, the new song playing on the radio distracts him; a six-pack of beers will do that to someone that hasn’t eaten properly in almost twelve hours. “ _Yo no recuerdo qué paso, pero me duele la cabeza._ _Sé que mezclé tabaco y ron, hay varias cosas en la mesa, en medio de una nena…_ ”, his voice is hoarse thanks to how hard he shouted earlier, but he looks happy, carefree, and as long as Mickey doesn’t question him again about his sexual/romantic life, Devan’s fine with his horribly out of tune signing.

This trip is something that they can never repeat.

**.**

The fourth month mark comes with a few unfortunate events.

The first goes like this:

Mickey is silently hanging from his sheets, muscles tense and stretched, breaths slow and even, when some stupid fucking agents barge in being loud as hell and saying some bullshit he doesn’t care about. Devan is… somewhere, which explains why he’s being so rudely interrupted by a bunch of morons.

“Milkovich,” one of them says, his voice echoing on the big, almost empty room. Mickey refrains himself from scowling at the irritating tone. He got into gymnastics for a reason, and not only the elasticity, so he’s able to ignore them concentrating on his breathing, the position of his legs, his bowed spine. It feels good. Who gives a shit he ‘not allowed to’? Like he cares about anything these fuckers say. “Milkovich! Get down there right now!”

God. Men really don’t have manners anymore. Aside from Devan, there’s no one savable here. Breathing deeply one last time, Mickey opens his eyes and looks straight at the agent’s eyes. Oh. _Him_. Tall, handsome, built and goddamn near god-like. He’s a fucking sigh to behold, even under all that standard clothing and bullet-proof vest. Mickey likes his eyes. He’s a sucker for that shade of green. The freckles are a plus, too. Now, if he was a redhead-

“Down, Milkovich” he says, his voice so very different from that of his subordinates that _yelled_ at Mickey. His tone is leveled, dripping in authority, so solid and strong you wouldn’t believe the man once had to make his way up the ranks, that he used to be someone with no power at all.

Mickey loves that kind of men. Stripping them bare of all their medals and decorations always turns them so _sweet_.

“Not enjoying the view?”, Mickey smiles, body still taut and unmoving in his practiced position, one that at first was a bitch to maintain, but now comes easy and grounding, like holding a gun or pressing a blade against someone’s throat. With time Mickey’s learnt to use everything as a weapon. His body is his best one.

“You’re breaking the rules, Milkovich. Destroying government property and misbehaving. I though you would be less childish.”

“Government property,” Mickey repeats with a quiet laugh, “some blankets and a jumpsuit? You were much more forgiving when I killed your men, _Roman_.”

“I underestimated you. Now I know better.”

“Do you?”, Mickey whispers untangling his legs from the sheets and slowly descending. His bare feet don’t like the cold ground. Now that he pays attention to his surroundings, being only on his underwear doesn’t seem like a great idea. Not until he catches Roman staring.

Roman watches him intently, eyes on parts of Mickey that he remembers the taste and texture of. He misses the feeling of Mickey’s skin under his palms, Mickey’s legs hugging his hips, Mickey’s mouth around his cock. Mickey’s shirtless, and so close, that he could just reach out and take as much as he wants while the Emperor is away and his King willing. A false, marked King. Tattooed with his owner’s name…

Roman is smart like Devan and sharp like Ian. And just like them, he’s a desire-driven man that burns too hot and can explode under the right pressure. Mickey knows his weak points better than he should. The day he was arrested was the third time they ever saw each other. The previous two, Roman didn’t have a clue about Mickey being The Joker’s sidepiece. Good thing. Also, Mickey got dicked down pretty fucking well on both occasions without anyone ending up dead. It was a good change.

“Am I being punished for ruining a jumpsuit and your precious blankets?”, Mickey walks until he touches the bars of this damn cage, chest pressed tightly against the metal, his moist skin and damp hair screaming for attention. “If you won’t let me go out to exercise…,” he shrugs, “what else am I supposed to do?”

“Respect the rules and earn your privileges.”

“Oh? What ‘about you let me do exactly that, Roman? I promise I’ll behave.”

Roman’s eyes are burning. Mickey knows he won’t let himself fall so low but hoping costs nothing. It’s been a while since he got laid, of course he would try to seduce this Adonis. You just don’t let the opportunity to ride that go without trying.

“You will be taken to the showers and given a new jumpsuit and sheets.”

“So, I’m being rewarded? I knew you like me being naughty.”

Roman doesn’t respond. Next thing Mickey knows, he’s getting electroshocked by the cage itself and then dragged out of it by two of Roman’s men. He acts as soon as his body obeys him, kicking one and then punching the other, taking advantage of one of them being new and stupid, more so than the rest. In seconds, he has a gun, and then a fucking serrated knife (god, these assholes are _sick_!) that he uses on someone’s leg and another’s abdomen before he’s being tackled to the ground and punched in the face.

“Thought we had somethin’ special, Rom”, he says after they are done fucking him up and have him restrained in a chair, still mostly naked and now with his face smeared with blood.

There’s a nurse and a doctor a few meters to his side, talking to each other in hushed tones, sneaking glances at Mickey like he won’t notice. He blows them a kiss when they turn their heads at the same time. Roman is somewhere behind his back, silent but watching attentively. Why does Mickey always like men with sadistic tendencies? Didn’t he have enough with his shitty childhood?

“You were so good to me before, handsome…,” the nurse approaches him with a syringe, unsure, but steady. He has balls. Not the prettiest, but still cute. Mickey winks at him and the poor fucker almost flinches. What is a real soft one doing here? He’s got to have bad, bad luck. “What did I do wrong? I didn’t suck your- _uh!_ ”, his body goes rigid with a new electroshock wave that crawls up his spinal column. He’s laughing when it stops.

The nurse looks startled to put it mildly. It takes him a few seconds to pull himself together. He injects Mickey with a troubled expression. Does it anyway, though. Well. He doesn’t have a choice.

He starts to feel dizzy in minutes. Only then Roman makes himself known again. Tall and beautiful and so fucking _close_.

“Before you do whatever you gon’ do”, he looks up at Roman, at his green eyes and black hair and warm skin, pretty beyond words and just the right amount and type of crazy to be on the ‘good’ side, “kiss me one last time?”

All he gets is a fist to the jaw.

Not surprising.

Same shit, different day.

**.**

Devan is furious when he sees the number Roman did on Mickey.

Whatever drug they filled him with hasn't wear off. The effects are not as potent, but what's left of it added to the beating he got… dizziness is the best part. He will thank Roman later.

“Just a jealous prick, sweetheart. He's not worth getting more blood on those dirty hands of yours.”

Not as dirty as Mickey's or Ian's or Roman's. Devan was something entirely different and he has to stay like that. It's selfish and ridiculous, but Mickey wants Devan to always be like he is now, like he was when they met. At least one good thing has to survive. Just one, and it will be enough for Mickey.

He can't let this Army die, too.

Fucking drugs.

He always gets emotional when he's high.

“Don't do anything to him, alright, Devan? Just-“

Not again.

Not one more single time

“Don't, okay?”

Devan makes no sound.

Mickey knows in that exact moment that, eventually, he'll lose Devan as well.

That how it works.

Tears won't change anything.

They didn't with Ian, either.


	2. parte 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has a part 2 now!  
> thanks for the comments and kudos and bookmarks!

You see, Ian has a temper.

He’s good one second and the next he feels asphyxiated by how slow things move, the way people talk, their clumsy presence and inexistent intelligence. They are so small. So unimportant to everything he wants to do and change and obtain. Slow and incompetent, blind to obvious signs and deaf to the clues people tend to whisper to the wind. How can they not _see_ everything that’s right under their noses? Ian will never know but fuck him if he doesn’t try to beat some damn brains into them. Learning is a tough path, after all, and he’s a persistent teacher.

That’s exactly why he surprises himself when he doesn’t lose it and shots the stupid piece of shit that tells him Mickey’s nowhere to be found. Not in their house on Chicago, no in one of their apartments or clubs, not even with one of his siblings. _Gone_ , the fucker says, as if that’s something possible when talking about Mickey. _We don’t know where else to look_ , he continues digging his grave like Ian doesn’t have a range of different kinds of weapons at reaching distance. _What do you want us to do, boss?_ , he asks with a voice that proves he has no fucking idea what to do without being ordered.

God.

Patience is _so_ hard.

“If you ever show your face to me again, I’m gonna put a damn hole between your fucking eyes, you incompetent fuck,” he says lowly, hands clenched, jaw tense. The man, whoever he is, is clever enough to not make a sound and make a bee line for the exit in less than five seconds. “Matthew,” the man responds instantly, back straight, face serious, completely aware of what Ian will do to anyone that gives him more negative answers. “Find him. I want him here this afternoon.”

“Yes, sir.” He nods and leaves, already thinking of ten different places Mickey could be at and fifteen ways of locating him by any means necessary.

He may enjoy Ian’s sadistic streak, but his survival instincts are more powerful than his bloodthirst. They need Mickey here or Ian will go ballistic, lashing out at everyone, be it his enemies or his own men. It’s been just a few weeks without Milkovich around, and Matthew doesn’t want to find out how bad it could get if his absence lasts more.

Of course, Matthew doesn’t find him, and Ian decides it’s time to give punishments.

His jaw hurts for days.

When Mickey finally comes back (on his own, because ‘you fuckers can’t make me do anything, the fuck do you think you are?’), Matthew’s multiple bruises have healed and there’s almost no evidence of Ian’s violent outbursts. Mickey is no idiot, though, so he catches up on the changes immediately. Morale is on the ground, and they are a bunch of criminals, yes, but fear is not as good as respect. Ian lost some of his men’s respect.

“Surprised you’re one of ‘em, Matt,” Mickey tells him. “Thought you were like him, but you just like to pretend, don’t ya?”, he’s smoking, his lower lip swollen, his left cheek purple. It’s not the worse Ian has done to him, but it’s still too much. There was a time Mickey was off-limits.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

Mickey doesn’t mock his utter lie. He offers him a smoke; which Matthew accepts without even thinking. He’s not usually a smoker, but things have been very tense lately.

“In a few months,” Mickey says slowly, eyes on the ground, “I’ll be gone a long time… I can get you out before that happens. You go nuts from time to time, that’s true, and I’ve never seen anyone else so happy about beating a man to a pulp, but maybe you have a future out there. How old are you? Twenty-five? You could go back to school or some other shit like that.”

“You really think I can go back to civilian life after being here for years?”

“If you go to therapy, yes, maybe, why not?”

“No one leaves.”

This time, Mickey does laugh.

“Not when they don’t want to.”

He throws his smoke to the ground and steps on it.

“Let’s see which one you are, Matt.”

Minutes after Mickey leaves, still trying to think of life as a common man, Matthew wonders where his boss is going and why he wants to somehow make amends before leaving.

**.**

“Hey, tough guy.”

Ian wakes up slowly. Pills make him sleep longer when he takes most of them. It doesn’t happen often, but Mickey came back just yesterday, so his plan is (kind of) behaving for some time until Mickey settles down again. Then, fuck all those fucking prescribed drugs. The only good drugs are the ones you take without being told to.

“Rise and shine, Cinderella, I leave in thirty minutes and first I need to talk to you.”

_That_ wakes him up.

“The fuck you mean you leave in thirty minutes, Mick?”

He rolls onto his back and sits up, groggy and tired, but awake enough to open the gates of Hell if Mickey is really planning to leave when he just came the fuck back.

“I’ve got business to take care of. You think I vacationed all those weeks? I fucking wish. But whatever, there’s shit to do, so listen,” his arms are crossed, dazzling blue eyes darker than a pit, his bruises looking uglier than Ian’s ever seen them. “I’m going to Nevada. Four days. Simon comes with me. You stay quiet and don’t bother me while I’m there.”

Funny he thinks Ian needs permission to do anything.

“You’re delusional. Like hell you’re leaving.”

Mickey raises one eyebrow.

“The fuck else you want me here for? You have work.”

“You’re my boyfriend. I want you here when I’m done with work.”

“Yeah, right. I have no boyfriend and last I remember you were fucking that Travis guy back in Florida.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mick. You’re my boyfriend. You could be my fucking husband, for fuck sake.”

Mickey looks at him, unimpressed, and Ian feels that bad omen thing people talk about looming over him. It’s been years since Mickey was this fucking unrelenting. Ian didn’t handle it well back then, and he's not about to now.

“You better not be fucking around on me, Mickey, or I swear to-“

“What? You gonna kill them? Even you would grow tired of it, Ian.”

Suddenly last night is not as good as Ian thought.

“How many?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Ian didn’t want them to fight, but it seems that’s what Mickey wants.

“It does,” Ian says, “I wanna know how much of a whore you are now, Mick.”

Mickey walks closer to the bed, impassive, so in control it makes Ian want to punch him again just to get a reaction out of him.

“I sucked a lot of them off right after they said hi to me. Got on my knees for them. Begged them to fuck my face good and hard until I lost my voice” it’s a lie. Mickey doesn’t kneel for anyone but Ian. Doesn’t beg until he’s been so fucked out of his mind, he can’t even remember his own name. Ian knows that perfectly, but the way Mickey’s talking makes it hard for him to think of something that isn't his jealousy-fueled rage. “I could be your husband? Fuck off. Right now, we’re not even fuck buddies.”

Ian stays in bed for a few more hours, and so does Mickey, but in the end, he leaves for Nevada and Ian is left to deal with himself for two more weeks

Well.

Mickey is angrier than Ian expected.

**.**

Matthew watches for those two weeks.

Ian changes and no one has any idea why.

He's irritable. Not like before, when he took it all out on his men, but retreating and staying silent, with his eyes looking through everyone as if none of them are real. Sometimes Matthew sees him holding a gun, inspecting it from every angle possible, his other hand overflowing with bullets even though the gun is fully loaded. It's strange considering it's Ian who's doing it. But everyone has a job to do and orders to follow, so only the few closest to him (Matthew and Devan; the other one is Simon and he's with Mickey) catch him acting oddly.

Five days after Mickey leaves, Ian calls Devan to talk in private. Matthew doesn't eavesdrop (he values his life more than that) but he has his suspicions about what Ian wants to talk about with Devan. Idiot is head over heels in love with their boss' lover. Matthew can't say Devan is the stupidest man he's met, but he's close to it. From everyone else he could've picked, it was Mikhailo Milkovich, a man whose story before jail doesn’t exist, a gorgeous face and a beautiful body with a terrible mind hiding behind them. Matthew likes him well enough, but not knowing what he's capable of has always disturbed him; Mickey doesn’t fight in front of witnesses, he leaves no trace, he makes no mistakes, he’s Ian’s right-hand man and lives up to the expectative.

Being Ian’s –the _Joker’s_ , as laughable as it sounds– lover says a lot about him.

Matthew sighs.

God, Devan _is_ the stupidest man he’s met.

That’s saying something considering he once met a guy that shot himself in the fucking head trying to impress some girl he wanted to fuck.

Devan has no visible bruises or open wounds when he comes out of Ian’s office. He still doesn’t look good, though, so Matthew supposes it was as bad as it could get with just verbal abuse. Mickey is already pissed enough to fuck off for no one knows how long, so Ian probably is weighing out the options before doing something outright drastic like kill some bastards to get Mickey’s attention and subsequent damage-control. At this point, Matthew is not as worried about the police as he is about having to calm Mickey down if Ian loses his shit for real.

That happened once, and Matthew sure as hell doesn't want it to repeat. Those were very nasty, very nerve-wrecking hours. Mickey wasn't the same for some time after that and Ian made sure none of his men ever said anything about the bloodbath that forced him to leave Chicago for months or else, he would've ended in prison. Matthew still daydreams about the whole thing. Before that day, he never thought he would have nightmares about drowning not only in blood, but intestines and other organs too.

“We'll have to burn all of our clothes,” Devan said when things calmed down and they were able to control the rest of Zach's men, a fucking idiot that woke up that morning thinking it would be funny to attack Ian's house. They still had no idea how he discovered the exact location.

Some rat would tell them.

Or not.

Either way, this wasn't going to be forgotten. Matthew had two broken ribs. Devan collapsed minutes later; a dislocated shoulder, four fingers broken, three stab wounds and a bullet on the leg. He was stupid beyond words, but when it came to fight, he was one of the best.

Mickey was covered in blood when Matthew saw him again; so was Ian, but Mickey didn't have a single wound, and Ian had several. Devan was already unconscious, so he didn't get to see Mickey completely ignore Ian and then take care of the injured until the doctors and nurses under Ian's command arrived. Even then he didn't leave Simon alone. The man's face was unrecognizable under the swelling and blood. When the nurses sedated him, Mickey stood up, looked around, his eyes lingering on Ian for a second, and started barking orders left and right.

They needed to leave. Who could assure them no one else knew where the house was? There wasn't even time to take their friend's bodies. Matthew didn't have anyone he cared about besides his bosses, Devan and Simon, but others did, and that crushed some of them; more so when their friends were also their brothers and sisters.

Right after a nurse stitched close his last wound, Ian took over and decided what eventually would lead them to success, but in that moment felt…

“I know where his siblings and wife are.”

Matthew still doesn't know how to describe how it felt.

Mickey said nothing.

No one did, and by next morning, Zach had no family anymore.

Mickey left for the first time after the news were announced on TV.

Since that day, Matthew's been waiting for him to never come back.

These two weeks are the confirmation Matthew always knew would come.

**.**

After Nevada Matthew notices a new tattoo on Ian’s ring finger. _MAM_ , it reads, and Matthew finds it funny that Mickey falls for it. Funny and worrying. Devan shows nothing on the outside, but the way he holds his guns is very telling. He's an army boy, like Mickey teasingly calls him from time to time, so watching him put his training to use is not new, but never having him let his guard down is more than strange. Dangerous, Matthew would say if asked, because there's nothing scarier than the once-patriotic turning into machines of jealousy and hunger.

The change was slow. There's no way of reverting it now. If Mickey offered him an out too, Matthew is sure he’ll never take it. He's stubborn and, even worse, hopeful. The day that hope dies will be something to remember. Matthew wants to be there to witness chaos unfold.

What he's not sure about, is who will kill who.

If he had to bet, he'd put his money on Ian being the one holding the gun.

But Matthew usually bets when he's high or drunk, so probably he's just having deliriums when he imagines Ian pointing at Mickey's head or heart.

Yeah.

It's deliriums, because, the heart? Seriously? That kind of melodramatic bullshit suits Devan better.

A bullet would too.

**.**

Simon is a very quiet, loyal and efficient forty-five years old man that rarely speaks when it's not necessary and is always the first to shut someone else up with a glare if they're surpassing the level of stupid Ian tolerates.

After Zach's attack, Simon started to take care of less dangerous tasks, like the accounting of Ian's more or less legal business. He's still healthy as a bull and as unrelenting as one, but he broke two bones fighting, and at his age it's better to be extra careful. But the man is so used to being active that his recovery almost drives him up the wall when the two-month mark comes around and he's still not allowed to do field work.

“Those boys,” Matthew hears him muttering to himself one afternoon, his eyes focused on all the books Mickey had been managing before him; they're up to date, with no errors or corrections, more organized than some fucking libraries because Mickey is like that, “thinking I can't take them, forgetting they have no impulse control when they work together…”

Grumpy, but not entirely wrong.

It gets very nasty when Ian screws up. It's worse after Nevada and the tattoo, because there was a promise now, and he still went and fucked some twink as soon as Mickey was as involved as before in their relationship.

“That fucking piece of lying, unfaithful shit,” is the first thing Mickey says when he finds out. He says it under his breath, between clenched teeth, and if Matthew was asked about it, he would say that was one of the most important moments of his life. He is furious and hurt, but he doesn’t react like other times. Not at all.

He doesn’t go find Ian to yell at him or sort things out the way they usually do; with fists or sex, both options work for them. He doesn’t go looking for the twink to threaten or beat him; he just shot one of ‘Ian's whores' once, and after that, he made sure to not carry guns with him because it fucking drove him nuts, yes, but shooting them resolved exactly nothing and was too messy to be worth it. He doesn't even look for some man to get back at Ian and made _him_ lose his goddamned marbles.

No.

He pulls out his cellphone, dials a number, and waits for the call to be picked up. The person on the other side of the line does in less than five seconds.

“Hey, Gallagher,” he says smiling, all fucking bright eyes and soft voice, the opposite of everything he's feeling, played with such practiced perfection it's distressing. Matthew does believe Ian is a clever man, but this? This sounds just like the day Ian surprised Mickey with the tattoo on his ring finger. “Yeah, we're almost finished here, fucker got scared and told us everything.” Really everything. Way more than he should have. “I'll be there on time, don't worry… Just a few minutes, I think, we still need to get some shit into the car, but it won't take much… I know, I know, just wait for me, tough guy, I'll make it worth your wait.”

A few minutes later, when they are ready to go, Matthew finds himself on the ground, ears ringing, Mickey looking down at him while Devan starts the car.

“Tell your fucking boss I'll bring the money. Don't bother trying to find me. We both know you won't until I want to see his fucking face again.”

And he kicks Matthew on the head.

When he wakes up, Simon is there, hovering over him, concerned, his eyebrows drawn together. Shit hit the fan, it seems, and Matthew can already feel Ian's fist on his jaw. He should've known better. Mickey has Devan on the palm of his hand. Obviously, army boy would help him do whatever he wanted. Fuck.

It takes Ian a few hours to stop having homicidal thoughts. Mostly. He's so wired up he doesn't sleep in two days. By the third, there’s another twink on his bed, and by the fourth, he's acts like it doesn't change anything that Mickey left him again. Matthew is not very preoccupied. Mickey always returns.

“Love,” Simon tells him when they discuss their bosses’ relationship, “is like that, and Mickey is the type of man that destroys himself for it.”

Uh.

Matthew agrees, but only to an extent. He finds it curious that Simon doesn't mention Ian when talking about love, but that’s just fine, misconceptions are the most common kind of errors. Or so Matthew thinks now, before the fall and the pain and Devan’s blood soaking Mickey’s hands.

“Mickey gives him even what he doesn't ask for,” which is a shit ton more than any of Matthew's ex-girlfriends (all but the last) ever tried to do. “Why cheat on him if he quite literally gets whatever he can wish for from Mickey? I mean, I'm on his side the rest of the time, but that's plain stupid.”

Simon sighs.

“Men don't cheat because they think there's something better for them,” he uncrosses his arms and pats his jacket to see if he forgot his cigarettes; he did. “They cheat because they can.”

Yeah.

Makes sense.

**.**

Years later, the day before they are to take Mickey out of prison, Matthew contemplates how Mickey's absence changed things this time around. Now that it wasn't because he was mad at Ian, but because he wanted to help him get his hands on some of the most dangerous criminals ever captured. The people that put them in the same prison are out of their fucking mind, crazier that the inmates themselves, Matthew believes, because what kind of deranged fuck has the man that's never missed a shot and the woman known for leaving her victims _dry_ within walking distance of each other?

“Why did you stay?”, he asks Simon, that doesn't look away from the books he's managing again because Mickey isn't here to do it. “He offered _me_ an out, and I assume he did the same with Devan, so why did you stay?”

Simon takes his sweet time ignoring him, writing, making calculations. Bitch. But whatever, Matthew wants to know. Needs to know because there's no way out anymore, and even if he never considered accepting Mickey's offer, losing opportunities is not a good feeling in this world they're immersed in.

“I belong here,” Simon tells him closing one book and opening another, “this is my home. There's nowhere else I want to go.”

“No wife? Or kids?”

“No.”

 His dedication to this job makes a lot more of sense now. He's got nothing else if Ian dies. If Mickey leaves. Matthew still has a sister and a mother. They don't talk to him since his high school days, but he has family somewhere, and he could find them if he wanted to, make amends and act like he cares about what they think of his life choices.

“I wasn't offered an out, Matthew. Devan wasn't, either.”

Unexpected.

But not.

He should've seen it coming.

Mickey is a bastard like that.

“He really thinks I can't deal with it,” he scoffs, incredulous, angry. Who Mickey thinks he is, judging him when he's the one that trapped himself in an unfulfilling, miserable life because if Ian loves him it's infinitesimal in comparison to what he feels, that he's just useful and convenient, but not essential. “Treating me like a damn coward when-“

“You are.”

Matthew freezes.

“The fuck you mean?”

“You're a coward, Matthew,” says Simons matter-of-factly, shrugging off Matthew's agitation like it has no reason to be. “You'll realize it sooner or later… I hope it's sooner; you have potential.”

“I'm not a coward,” he grits out angrily.

Simon flips one, two, three pages before finally looking at Matthew, his grey eyes heavy, but amused. Fucking dickhead.

“Don't worry too much about it,” he smiles, slow and sharp like Mickey, as confident and self-assured as Ian. “We all are.”

Matthew doesn’t believe.

It's absurd.

For now.

**.**

Roman gets shot the day they get Mickey out of prison.

It’s a controlled flow of chaos that Ian orchestrates with a stony face and strong orders. They've had it planned for months. Devan gave them every detail they needed to not only have Mickey out in less than forty minutes, but to make it possible for Ian to offer freedom in exchange of favors to some of Mickey's fellow inmates. Five accept. The other two say some bullshit about morals and principles that Ian get tired of after the first two words.

“Have fun with the pigs, then, I guess,” he murmurs resuming his walk through the cells, steps loud, hands secured around an automatic.

Roman is a stupid son of a bitch, kind of like Devan in his weakness, but with a lot less of integrity in his drive to get whatever he wants however he has to. His biggest mistake is wanting what is Ian's and thinking Mickey's love for Ian is as fleeting and unsatisfying as the one he's received from his own partners.

“Oh my god, _shut up_ ,” Mickey groans before taking a gun from Ian's belt and shooting Roman in the leg. “Been waiting to do that for months,” he laughs happily, a hand on Ian's nape, lips pressing against Ian's cheeks and mouth in rapid succession. Ian encircles his waist with both arms, lifting him up a little, grin big and feral before descending on Mickey's lips like the man on a mission that he is.

Reunion.

It looks better than it really is.

_They_ look better than they really are.

“Good to see you, Matt,” Mickey tells him when they're on their way to one of Ian's security houses. He's smoking, lazy smile, quick fingers, body full of nervous, eager energy. Like a dog. Matthew doesn't laugh, but the thought improves his mood. “Simon took care of the books?”

 Interesting first question after getting out.

“Yes. Everything's in order.”

 Mickey glances at him, eyes cold, look heavy with a thousand emotions Matthew has no time to distinguish and classify. He's not where he is, _who_ he is, by mere chance or foolish luck. Mickey has a knack for reading people, picking up on their mannerisms and patters of speech, how they move and to whom or what they do it, knit together the little clues and signals until he has a solid image of what they desire and how much they would be willing to do or give up for it.

That's why Matthew doesn't get why he's still here, why he let himself be arrested, beaten and tortured for something that is simple not there. Not anywhere anymore, if it ever existed on the first place. It's pathetic, morbidly entertaining but ultimately depressing. Matthew doesn't love him, doesn't like him, doesn't _care_ about him, but it bothers him, nonetheless. That potential, that mind, wasted on accounting books, sex, seduction and fighting. Wasted on things that won't matter in the end. On a man that will end up killing him one way or another.

You see, Matthew loves fighting, punching, kicking. He likes the pain and inflicting it. He enjoys getting his knuckles bloody and hearing bones break. He always has and that’s what lead him here, to organized crime, because he started getting into fights since he was eight, breaking noses since he turned ten, fracturing bones since twelve. But apart from that, he's a simple man, perceptive but not much, strong but not among the strongest, smart enough to do math but not to plan how to successfully infiltrate the police and the army. He's vicious, beast-like, sadistic, but not what Mickey is, what he could be if he wanted to, and that makes Matthew lose his fucking mind.

Buried in mediocrity for what? Sporadic moments of peace and quasi-happiness? Unfaithfulness and lies? Sex (Matthew suspects) he no longer gets any pleasure from? A high-stress lifestyle that hurts more than it's possibly enjoyable?

Mickey smiles at him, slow, calculated, and offers him a smoke.

Matthew takes it. And then another. And another. Until they smoke their way through the whole pack.

They never smoke again after that day.

**.**

Life's unfair, Matthew supposes, but it's good while it lasts.

Ian and Mickey's honeymoon phase concurs with a streak of great deals. Things stabilize. The criminals Ian freed pay back. Repeatedly. Ian got them out, he can send them back in. They prefer to obey the orders he gives them occasionally than be locked up for life and never do what they want or see the ones they love again. Even they have those, it seems, and that annoys Matthew, because it serves to prove _he_ is an anomaly, not part of the normative.

Ian may love no one like Mickey loves him, but he has a lover, a devoted one at that, and that's enough to separate him from Matthew. His last girlfriend left him after three weeks. Matthew doesn't blame her for leaving him (it was the smartest thing any of his girlfriends could ever have done), he's just angry she didn't even give him an explanation before she up and left. For a time, he thought maybe she was the woman he was going to settle down with. No such luck.

Matthew wonders if he would understand Mickey better if she had stayed. Most probably not, he thinks, but there's no harm in reminiscing about the good things he had before he found his place among mob bosses, murderers and thieves. Bad, but not the worse, so he's doing way better than his mother ever though he would.

After being expelled from the fourth middle school in two years and being sent to juvie a few months later, she started to give up and, even though she never voiced her fears, she was expecting him to be dead or in prison by eighteen. She did what she could, and it was a good thing she concentrated her energy on Clarice, Matthew's younger sister, because Matthew never had any intention of being different, of changing at all. Once, when he broke a boy's arm and managed to not be caught, his mother looked at him, distant, unmoving, and then told him, plain and simple, that he was the first person she ever loved after her father died when she was a child.

She never said it again.

Matthew knows that was the moment he realized what his life was going to be like.

**.**

 “How's life treating you, Matt?”

 The air is cold, and the day is grey. Matthew feels more at ease than he has in months, and even if he still doesn't like to admit it, it has everything to do with the man in front of him, thin and slow, hurt in ways Matthew has never experienced, but still there, alive, breathing, moving.

Mickey's changed since he left Ian for the last time. It's been years, not as many as they feel, but enough to be seen in both their bodies, in Mickey's permanently injured leg and Matthew's forever fucked up arm.

Their last fight was the worst of them all.

They always knew it would, but never expected to survive. The end was supposed to be final, not the beginning of a new era, not this joke of a life they didn't wanted and don't know how to cope with.

“Not that bad. Physical therapy is going well.”

His arm won't ever work like it used to, but the little movement and sensibility he has is better than the numbness of the start. Mickey's injuries were just as bad, concentrated on his right leg and hip, slow to heal and painful beyond any words.

“Same. I can walk longer distances now.”

Matthew nods and takes a sip of his coffee. He thinks of all those times he saw Mickey dancing on the clubs, stretching further than he ever thought possible, bending his body in ways that would seriously hurt if not done correctly. He was incredible. Still is, but it's different now than he can't move as easily, his leg hurting and trembling after just a few minutes of running.

Ian really went above and beyond to make sure they paid for what they did, or tried to, at least; as if that could ever happen in any circumstances, like he had it in him not to try to lure them back in again. It was unnecessary and counterproductive, done during a flash of the worst of him, the anger, the impulsiveness, the unrestrained mania. Matthew understands better now, but his own resentment is still stronger than anything else.

“He kept his word?”

Mickey smiles, dejected, sad, resigned.

“He stopped taking them about a month later.”

Yeah. That's how it is with Ian.

“You’ve seen him lately?”

Matthew's new life is working out fine, so he tries to ignore Ian's men watching him, keeping track of him, far enough to not interfere directly, but too close not to be noticed. That's the intention. Whoever is watching Mickey is much more discrete, undetectable, more than simply good if Mickey is not complaining about it.

“He came by a few weeks ago,” Mickey says, shrugging, his coffee cup abandoned in the table; vices are part of his old life, and the only way he could think of not to lose his mind after everything changed was keep little things at reaching distance, like that pot of coffee he makes every morning, the gun that he has on his nightstand or the little box full of coke and weed that lives inside his closet. “We talked, I made him food, he told me how things are going and then left. The usual.”

Yeah… Matthew’s been hoping for years now, but it seems that some things don’t change as easily as others. Simons told him clearly that Mickey would first destroy himself than harm Ian, and here they are, both living like this because of Mickey loving that son of a bitch the way he does. Unconditionally. It will always be a mystery to Matthew how Mickey does that. He could never. Matthew doesn’t know anyone else that would after all Ian’s done and will do.

This isn’t done, Matthew laments.

Devan’s death wasn’t enough for Ian.

Nothing ever is.

**.**

After prison, Mickey fells above the fucking clouds.

He’s happy to be out, to be _back_ , and his euphoria is enough to make Ian’s cheating less annoying when it eventually happens. To be honest, he’s a little high when he finds Ian fucking the man, so that’s probably what keeps him calm. Ian does it in their bedroom, no less, because he’s a bastard like that, and Mickey was planning to ride him into the mattress, but things tend to not go his way, so, really, he shouldn’t even expect different by now.

But yeah, whatever, he knew what he was getting himself into when he decided to be with Ian. He can’t complain now. He can’t make demands when everything he asked for was being Ian’s lover, the one that Ian would keep by his side no matter how many others he fucked.

A stupid thing to ask, he sees that now, but there’ll never be more than that.

He might as well enjoy the damn show.

One thing he’ll give Ian, is that he has a pretty fucking good taste. This man is handsome, no as much as Roman (is anyone?), but more than most. Light brown hair, big black eyes, long legs and a big cock. Mickey wonders if the man would be as good at giving it as he is at receiving and considers asking for his turn when Ian is done with his.

Maybe they’ll finally reach a middle ground about this.

If Ian feels like it. Tonight, he doesn’t, and Mickey ends up watching from the couch he likes to keep in the bedroom. Ian fucks like a beast, sometimes a bit too rough, but the man doesn’t seem to mind, his faced pressed into the mattress, moans and whimpers so loud Mickey thinks people two floors down can hear him. Not that anyone in the house wants to say something. There’s a reason Mickey is convinced there’s been a fuck ton more whores than the ones he’s caught Ian with.

What a price to pay for some dick attached to a pretty face. Mickey laughs at himself, voice deep and loud enough for Ian to hear him. Gallagher looks good like that, sweaty and flushed, enjoying the pleasure he once thought he would never have again. The pills are horrible, he's said to Mickey on countless occasions, makes him feel dead and unreal, like a fading memory that everyone can tell exists, but no one is able to describe.

_Unreal_ , Mickey thinks while Ian speeds up, grunting, panting, the man underneath him taking it as if he's done so in the past; he's too handsome, too clean and willing, for Ian to let go that easily. Mickey would fuck him more than once, too.

_A fading memory_ , even though there are ones that remember perfectly, whose emotions only seem to grow stronger and with each passing day. Ian looks at him grinning, unstoppable, the force that guides Mickey's life, but Mickey can't feel as clearly as before, no because it's gotten weaker (the opposite is the truth), it's just that he no longer reacts to it with unrestrained, mindless surges of passion. He's not as naïve anymore. Ian likes excitement, the unpredictable, and sometimes Mickey doubts he provides it. Being shockingly violent and leaving after a disagreement is unexpected the first time, then, as everything else, it turns into routine.

_Everyone can tell exists, but no one is able to describe_ , Ian comes, his final thrusts brutal, wet, filthier than Mickey remembers the last time they fucked being. Judging by the smile plastered on his face, he liked having Mickey here, watching silently, only getting closer after the man beneath him has regained control over his body to stand up and leave with no words said. What a good boy. If only Mickey liked them like that.

Milkoviches tend to go after what they shouldn't and thinking they stand a chance against it.

That's one of the reasons why there’s only three of them left.

Mickey’s decided to keep that number from changing in a long time.

So, he does what he is the best at.

“Hey, firecrotch, what if you let me suck you off before you fuck him next time?”

He adapts.

**.**

He meets Roman long before Ian tells him the man is a target.

Leaving is good to calm him down, helps him think straight after he wastes a considerable amount of Ian’s money on useless things that he’ll end up leaving in the hotel or burning in an empty parking lot; after drinking alone, without all the noise Ian brings with him, and only Devan’s silent presence catching his attention once in a while.

He’s way more composed than usual. It must be the habit, the cycle that’s been repeating itself for years until it’s not surprising anymore. Just disappointing. Frustrating.

Mickey is tired of Ian fucking other men whenever he feels like it, thinking (rightfully so) that Mickey will come back, and that they’ll sort it out and never speak of it until it happens again.

It always does.

Ian gets easily bored, needs constant distractions and entertainment. Sex is good to take his mind off that suffocating monotony that threatens to swallow him whole, or so he’s said to Mickey time and time again. He can’t stand the thought of being consumed by that nothingness, the irrelevancy, the lack of energy and emotion and _life_.

Mickey knows (he fucking _understands_ ) but while Ian makes everything in his hands to prevent losing himself in that whirlwind his mind has turned into…

But yeah, Mickey meets Roman long before the man becomes a target.

They talk for a while about nothing and everything, lies upon lies that they say to construct different selves for the night. Mickey likes Roman’s hair, his dark eyes and deep, careful voice. Likes the way Roman looks at him, all his attention concentrated on Mickey’s voice, Mickey’s body, Mickey himself even if all that’s coming out of his mouth is mostly false. Even the name he gives. He’s Noah tonight, just for Roman, and Mickey loves it, the comfortable lack of expectations or promises, a clean vale for whatever they want to do.

Mickey gives Roman a blowjob in an alley and then they move to a motel where Mickey loses track of time and half his conscience. Roman is big, stretching him just how he likes, holding him and letting him take what he wants however he needs it. Slow. Hard. Fast. Soft. Mickey get hickeys and a few accidental scratches. Roman leaves in the middle of the night with a mark bite and the clear memory of everywhere Mickey ( _“Noah, really?”_ ) grabbed him to pull him closer.

Maybe it was the alcohol they drank or the circumstances that surrounded them individually, but neither of them forgets the other for a long time after that day. Roman remembers when he meets other men, their body heat feeling different, not as good against his own body. Mickey remembers when Ian marks his skin with his teeth, fingers and nails, the burn so clear and sharp it almost shocks him.

“You’re distracted,” Ian murmurs nosing along his throat, his body hot and sweaty, his cock buried deep inside Mickey. “What’s bothering you, Mick?” he asks so nicely, with such care it warms Mickey’s entire being more than anything else he could do. He takes Ian’s head with both hands and kisses him. He’s sweet. Always so sweet. Mickey loves how he tastes.

“I missed you.”

Ian smiles.

There are no more marks for the rest of the night.

A few months later, Ian hands him a folder.

Roman’s looking back at him when he opens it.

Weeks later they “coincidentally” meet again, this time in one of Ian's clubs where Mickey's been dancing for the last four days. He puts on a show every time, never shying away from some honestly sinful moves no other dancer dares to perform. It's funny to see the men trying to reach him, offering him crumpled up one-dollar bills like he needs them so much he wouldn't mind a bit of groping for another ten. One has the audacity to sneak three of his fingers up Mickey's booty shorts, pinching his flesh for a good two seconds before Mickey's shoving him off and Matthew drags him all the way out to the pavement.

It's another two songs before Mickey catches a glimpse of Roman's face among the crowding dance floor.

He looks even better that Mickey remembers, his tight shirt hugging his muscles in a way that makes his mouth fucking water. Such a beautiful man. There must be a God whose grace is so great he even blesses Mickey’s life with beauty. Michelangelo’s David has nothing on this man.

Suddenly Mickey's very glad Ian's not here to monitor him. He had business somewhere else –maybe between some twink’s legs– so Mickey can very much do whatever the hell he wants to attract Roman’s attention. There are cameras here, but Ian rarely checks the footage when the people that come in are so low-rank as Roman. Devan isn’t here. Matthew doesn’t care enough. Simon is taking care of everything back home.

Mickey is free to give in to Roman’s charm while still getting the job done.

“Didn’t pegged you for the type to come to these places.”

Roman is too good to look anything but composed, but Mickey sees the way his shoulders drop a little, his back muscles relaxing, his eyes not as hostile as before. He scans Mickey’s body, assessing him, fitting this new image into the one Mickey presented to him months ago. After a second, Roman smiles, happy and excited, his posture changing until he’s not the army officer anymore, but a simple man thinking he’s found someone that can be more than a one-nigh stand. It seems like fate, stumbling upon each other after being sure he’d never see ‘Noah’ again.

If only life was as fantastic as that.

“Didn’t pegged you for the type to dance for a living.”

“Got bills to pay and a job that doesn’t give me enough to do it,” Mickey smiles getting down the platform, Roman following his movements unconsciously. Mickey puts his hands on Roman’s chest, feeling him up a little before taking a step back and saying, “twenty-five gives you a dance. Fifty a private.”

“How much you make a night?”

“Three-hundred on a good day. Four if I’m lucky.”

Roman advances slowly, a playful smile dancing on his lips, and Mickey knows in that moment he’s not leaving the man go until they’re both too sore and tired to continue. It will be last time Roman will ever want to touch him. Mickey will milk it for as long as he can.

“You have friend’s discount?”

Mickey will be in prison for months.

“Only if you buy breakfast tomorrow morning.”

You bet your fucking ass he has discounts.

**.**

When he’s arrested, Roman is one of the officers that welcome him into prison. He qualifies to get thrown into the high-security facility, something the pigs learn very fast when he stabs one of their fellow officers in the eye, breaks two noses and get his hands in a gun during the four first days of his imprisonment.

Roman thinks Mickey’s mocking him when he asks to be kissed one last time.

Mickey never tries to correct him. Roman gets angrier. By the time Ian comes to get him out, all Mickey could’ve felt for the man has vanished into the memory of being strapped to a chair, drugged and electroshocked.

He shoots Roman in the leg and laughs about it, Ian’s touch –voice, smile, all of him– too good and distracting for Mickey to really give a damn.

Things are like they should again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah... i'm on finals week. i stress-write fanfic while procrastinating my studying and project-writing

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man. I love Devan.  
> It's not everything I wanted to write about this universe, but I'm on vacation and I should be writing a project, so I edited this and decided to post it because I hadn't posted anything in months hahahaha  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Mickey's listening to Maluma, btw, the songs are 'Cuenta a saldo' and 'Hangover', if any of you were curious about that.


End file.
